Chapter Twenty-Two #2
He breathed through nausea. Pain he could endure.
He had endured worse. But his body was not obeying him as it should, and that could prove dangerous for him.
From what he could tell, two men stood guard beyond the door.
Maybe more. If he could stand straight, he would try to take them, but he had no way to know how far he’d get if he did succeed in knocking them out.
He’d rather preserve his strength for the main event.
The crowd roared again, louder this time.
His jaw tightened. Would they force her to watch?
There was every chance they would. A fifty percent chance. A spectacle was nothing without an audience, and cruelty always preferred witnesses. There was also an equal chance she’d already been forced to marry.
The notion sent a sharp ache through his chest.
He did not deal in such odds. Never had. Fifty percent was the language of gamblers, men who trusted fortune to make their choices for them.
And yet here he was.
Damn Rook.
The man had been meant to draw the Bulldog out. Keep Drake informed. That had been the plan. Simple. Reaper would laugh himself hoarse when he heard of this. If Drake survived Violet’s brother, he would allow Reaper that indulgence.
His hands curled into fists.
He couldn’t lose in front of her. Couldn’t die.
He’d haunt them bloody all if he did. Despite what she may have felt in the end for him, she’d blame herself.
Bloody regrets. He hated them. He should have told her.
He should have told her that he wanted her in his bed, in his life, damn it, in his soul, if such a thing existed.
He’d missed his chance. He’d been given several of them, had lost each one, and now the odds for him were as good as a coin toss.
Fool.
He slumped into the chair again.
If he fell for a fourth time, he wouldn’t get back up.
That dog would make sure of it. Drake closed his eyes, just for a second, summoning an image of Violet, fiery and fierce behind his lids.
Alive. Defiant. Treating him as though he were something other than a brute.
Also treating him exactly as though he was a brute, but that was the pleasure of that little flame, the saucy spitfire, the bewitching carnivorous flower.
The corner of his lips lifted.
Any sense of betrayal he might have felt at her deception, at the truth she had not shared, had burned away the moment he had faced her brother again. Seeing that man had answered every question he had never voiced.
No one in their right mind would return willingly to a house that held such a vicious dog.
Drake’s gaze snapped up when the door opened, focus sharpening despite the pain. His muscles bunched, readying himself for them to haul him out. But it was not one of the guards who stepped inside.
The man who entered had aged since Drake last saw him, right before they’d crated him and sent him to unknown shores, now propped on a cane and dressed for a funeral. Most likely his.
Drake sneered.
Uncle.
“Well, well, the first bastard finally shows himself,” Drake growled.
“I’m no bastard.”
Drake cocked his head, settling back deeper into his slouch. “Records prove otherwise. Although, by all accounts, Grandfather was much more reserved than our father. He only had one bastard son he raised as his spare.”
“No proof exists of what you claim.”
Drake shrugged. His uncle’s expression didn’t so much as twitch at the taunt. Cold blackguard. “Are you sure? Is that not why you left our dear half-brother, the Duke of Crane, alone and focused all your energy on our empire?”
His uncle stared at him flatly.
Christ. The man they wanted to catch was within his grasp, and yet he couldn’t touch him.
One of the worst sorts of torture, in Drake’s opinion.
Should he just charge him? Snap his neck and let the cards fall where they may?
He’d die alongside his uncle, then. His fists clenched.
But no matter what, he wouldn’t do that to his brothers, to Violet.
Let this wretch live, let them both live, to fight another day.
“You are just as arrogant as always, I see.”
“You expected me not to be?” Drake said cockily. “Why not end me here and now? Why whisper in a noble’s ear to do your bidding? I presume the fight back in London with that dog was your doing.”
“Smart as ever, but you’re not that smart, boy.” Sirius’s face hardened, eyes flashing. “Do you know what I had to do to get back to England? You don’t warrant the courtesy of quick death from me.”
Drake’s mouth curved. “Then you have come to watch me die.”
“On the contrary.” Sirius tapped his cane once against the stone. “I came to see whether you will survive. Perhaps fate will deem your life worthy today.”
Toying with him, then.
So that was his uncle’s plan. The long game.
Tonight, his appearance, twice now, was meant to demonstrate inevitability.
Prolong their torment. Make sport of them until there was nothing left but death.
“How could you speak of worthiness? That would require you to understand worth. I know for a fact you do not. You’ve always overestimated yours. ”
A thin smile. “You always did have a talent for insolence. How is that going to help you now, I wonder.”
Drake scoffed, noting the deep lines of age on his uncle’s face. Their last scuffle of power had taken its toll on the old man. What did they say about weeds? “You will regret the day you ever crossed me, uncle.”
“So you all say.”
“And it seems you are here for retribution. That was our mistake. We should have removed your legs before we shipped you off.”
His uncle shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “You should have, yes, for now you all will lose yours, so to speak.”
“Oh?” Drake caught the twitching at the corner of his eye. “Have you not lost a limb as well? Deveraux is a Fury now.”
“Deveraux has a part to play. He played it.”
“And you lost.”
“Did I?”
Drake scowled. Don’t let him get into your head.
The man had lived in his head once before, whispering poison.
Drake had spent years cutting him out, carving him free.
He would not let him back in now. Deveraux had turned.
That was fact. This, whatever Sirius implied, was a billow of smoke without a fire, nothing more.
Drake’s mouth curved. “You know, for a man so devoted to long games, you’ve aged poorly.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed.
“All that planning,” Drake went on lightly, “all those years nursing grudges and sharpening knives in the dark, and still you need other men to swing for you. A cane to lean on. A pit to hide behind.” He arched a lazy brow. “Is this what victory looks like for you?”
“Mind yourself,” Sirius warned, fingers tightening around the cane.
“Oh, I am,” Drake said softly. “Perfectly clear-headed.” Tiny lie. “You came here to see me crack, but I’d wager you hobble from here disappointed.” His gaze dropped briefly, deliberately to the cane. “Careful, uncle. Rattling it like that makes you look frail.”
There it was. The crack in the surface.
Drake noted the slip, the faint but visible tremor of those gloved knuckles.
That’s right, uncle. Rage. Men who rage make mistakes.
And if he didn’t survive this by some cruel twist of fate, let him return as a ghost and haunt and torment this man until his brothers dealt him his final blow.
Only then would his soul bloody rest. If he did survive . . .
The cane struck the door once. Hard.
“Enough of this. It’s time.”
Drake braced himself.